


“Be quiet.”

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [23]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Christmas Smut, F/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-18 01:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21769756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Strike discovers he has a kink for elf hats
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Denmark Street musings [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1035698
Comments: 18
Kudos: 71





	“Be quiet.”

**Author's Note:**

> This started as the following prompt:
> 
> “Be quiet.”  
> “I didn’t say anything!”
> 
> ..and it was just going to be a sweet bicker about decorations, it really was. I don’t know what happened. 😂😜

“Be quiet.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Strike stands in the doorway of their office, his hand still on the handle, coat still on, regarding the tree and the tangle of Robin and lights. His gaze flickers from the box of decorations on the sofa to the jaunty Santa on the corner of her desk. Every year, just a little more, a little earlier. _This is Christmas by stealth,_ he thinks.

But what has really caught his eye is the elf hat she’s wearing, the green complementing her red-gold hair, the bell jingling jauntily. Somewhere deep in his psyche, he’s a little ashamed of how sexy it is. His libido is most definitely not.

“You thought it. I heard you.”

“Oh, you can hear me think now?”

She chuckles, and then sighs as she tugs gently on the next little knot of lights. “How do they get so tangled when they spend eleven months in a box doing nothing?” She glances up again. “And I might as well be able to. I know what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?” He steps properly into the office, closes the door, removes his coat and hangs it on the peg.

She turns to him, grinning. “It’s too early. Too many decorations. Too much Christmas.” She winks. “I know you, remember. I’m being Christmassy enough for the both of us.”

He barely hears her. That cream jumper that she knows he loves is stretched across her chest, and the hat has slipped a little. It’s hard to breathe suddenly, the office stuffy and hot.

“That’s not what I was thinking.” His voice is rougher than he’s expecting, and he sees from the way her eyes widen that she’s heard. She puts the lights down. “No?”

He takes a step forward. She licks her lips as she looks at him, stood there by her desk. The sight of that pink tongue peeking out to run across those plump, delectable lips sends his blood rushing south. She’s doing it deliberately. He doesn’t care.

He’s trying to think. It’s Friday afternoon. Are they expecting any more clients? He’s pretty sure not, but his thought processes have gone somewhat hazy in the last two minutes.

Robin leans back against her desk, her eyes holding a wicked twinkle, and her hands slide to her hips. Her fingers curl. She’s slowly rucking up her neat little pencil skirt, more and more of her tights-clad thighs revealed to his hungry gaze.

Nick and Ilsa. They’re meeting later for dinner. But not until seven. That gives them...over two hours. Time even for a shower as well, then. He watches, mesmerised, as she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her tights and starts to push them down. He only realises she’s pushing her knickers away too when he catches a brief glimpse of golden curls - a glimpse cruelly snatched from him as her skirt, no longer held out of the way, follows the shiny fabric of her tights down.

He groans. Her eyes drop to his groin where his cock is already straining at the front of his trousers. She knows exactly what she does to him. Not for the first time, he wonders if she always did.

“Now I definitely know what you’re thinking.”

His eyes are black with desire as she steps out of the tights and wriggles to sit on the edge of her desk, pulling her skirt up again, parting her thighs so he can see— Oh, God, everything.

“Well, now I’m actually not thinking at all,” he rasps, stepping towards her.

She grins and reaches for his belt, pulling him close between her legs, undoing it at the same time. His hands slide across the curves of her breasts through the jumper, feeling their fullness, his breathing harsh as she undoes his belt and trousers and reaches into his boxer shorts. Another groan escapes him as she caresses his cock, pushing fabric away to draw him out, and he can’t resist thrusting into her hands a little, his hips moving of their own accord. Her nipples are stiff little peaks under the stretched fabric, and she whimpers as he pinches at them gently.

She hitches herself higher on the desk, and pulls his hips closer, angling so that his cock slides against her slick folds. She’s so wet and ready for him, and a curse escapes him, his hips bucking again. He has no self-control around her, never has had.

“Fuck, Robin—”

“God, Cormoran,” she whispers. She tosses her head just a little, making the bell on her hat jingle, and he really is going to have to examine his warped subconscious that finds that a turn-on. Later.

She drops back onto her elbows, the poor Santa falling unheeded to the floor, as his hands slide down to her hips. He pauses, toying with her a little, hands splayed across the tops of her thighs and one thumb finding her clit, stroking gentle circles, barely-there touches, making her drop her head back and writhe against him, gasping. He wants to draw her pleasure out longer, drive her anticipation higher, but she whimpers and bucks a little, sliding her molten core against his cock, and he can’t hold back.

He thrusts into her in one deep stroke, growling at the pure, heady pleasure of it. Her answering moan as he slides all the way in almost tips his pleasure too far, and he holds still, buried deep within her, panting, struggling for control. She writhes against him, glassy-eyed. “Please, Cormoran—”

Shaking, he withdraws almost completely, and then presses forward again, and she groans as he thrusts home, filling her, stretching her. She bucks, trying to encourage him faster. She’s still propped on her elbows, her hair spilling behind her, her legs spread wide, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so gloriously sexy as she gazes up at him, eyes glazed, face full of pleasure because of him, because of what he’s doing to her.

He pulls back again and slides back in, picking up a rhythm. She’s so perfect, so sexy, he will never, ever tire of the pleasure they find in one another, whether it’s an unexpected encounter like this that feels like it might be over embarrassingly fast, or a long, lazy afternoon in bed, drawing the moment out as long as they can.

He pumps into her, watching the flush creep up her neck and across her cheeks, feeling the delicious swell of anticipation, his whole body drawing tight. The pleasure builds until it’s almost too much, but somewhere in the back of his mind, a warning flag. The voices, the distant footsteps, the slam of the front door downstairs, all seem to reach him at once.

Robin whimpers a protest as he slows, slides fully home and stops. She flexes her hips, trying to move herself along his length as he holds still, and little jolts of pleasure pierce him as she rocks. He grips her hips, holding her steady. “Shh,” he whispers, his head half turned, listening.

Panting, Robin stares up at him, confused, then she hears it too and he sees the fog in her eyes clear a little. He leans down, resting his weight across her as she lies back on the desk. Their movement shifts him inside her, and they both moan a little, trembling. He wonders if she was as close to finishing as he was.

The footsteps are coming on up. Damn.

“Did you lock the door?” Robin whispers.

Did he? He’s not sure. “I think so.”

“You _think_ so?”

“Shh.”

Suddenly he knows those voices. It’s Ilsa and Nick. Fuck it all, what are they doing here? Two hours early. He finds himself wildly wondering if it would be better or worse to be caught shagging his business partner across her desk by people he knows rather than strangers.

He’s about to find out. A hand grips the door handle, turns it.

A rattle. It’s locked. Thank fuck for that. Now all they have to do is stay still. Strike really hopes the glass is frosted enough to obscure actual details. Maybe his fortunately still trouser-clad backside can be mistaken for a chair back or a cast-aside coat.

“Oggy?” Nick raps sharply on the door. Beneath him, Robin startles, and even through the thoughts spinning through his head and the fear of being caught by his best friends, the pleasure jolts through him as she jerks. His cock throbs, buried in her glorious heat. He’s on the precipice, and having to freeze still like this isn’t helping.

“I’ll see if he’s upstairs,” they hear Ilsa say, and her footsteps trot up the final flight. In the hallway, Nick whistles a little.

Strike’s head is resting on Robin’s shoulder, his face at her neck, his breath hot on her skin. Her chest rises and falls as she tries to control her breathing, and his hand resting against her upper arm is tantalisingly close to her breast. Unbidden, his thumb slides against the curve of her, and her breath hitches.

Upstairs, Ilsa is knocking on the door to his flat, calling his name.

His thumb slides again, up across the curve of her breast, and Robin whimpers a little against his temple, a tiny sound under her breath, making his cock jerk within her again. He’s not sure why he’s torturing them both like this, he just can’t seem to stop. He reaches her nipple and scrapes across it, and she arches just a little, her muscles squeezing around his cock, and pleasure pulses through him, making his hips flex involuntarily. She groans, low. This is a dangerous game.

Ilsa trots back down the stairs, and she and Nick are having some sort of conference in the hallway now. Shit, what if they decide to ring him? His phone is in his coat pocket, hung right by the door.

Robin squeezes him again, arching her back, and he hisses in a breath and his hips move again. She rocks against him, encouraging him, and he rocks back.

Ilsa and Nick are still talking, and now Strike is moving infinitesimally against Robin, desperately seeking any friction, aching for release. He’s losing the will to care if they get caught or not, only dimly aware of his friends, pure pleasure washing over him as she rocks beneath him, squeezing, encouraging, panting.

It’s building, the pleasure, coiling in the base of his spine, and she’s whimpering now, her hands biting into his arms, her head dropping back. He can feel the flutter of her around him and he knows her, knows she’s close. He’s rocking harder, probably enough to be noticed through the frosted glass if anyone is looking, but he can’t stop. He’s rapidly losing control.

At last, mercifully, the Herberts reach some sort of conclusion and set off down the stairs again. Even as their footsteps fade, Strike is levering himself up onto his elbows. His mouth finds Robin’s as he begins to thrust in earnest, and he’s lost. Kissing her, his tongue in her mouth, he withdraws and thrusts harder and harder, and feels her moan into his mouth as she dissolves around him. Three more hard strokes and he’s emptying himself into her with a groan, the pulses of pleasure intense, his hips jerking erratically.

He collapses onto her, gasping, and they cling to one another, panting.

They hear the front door downstairs slam, and Robin starts giggling. Strike gasps as jolts of pleasure-pain, too much stimulation, stab through him at her movements, and gently draws free.

In his coat pocket, his phone starts ringing.

Grinning, ignoring it, he kisses her deeply, languidly. He feels incredible and really rather wobbly. Slowly he levers himself off her. His phone stops ringing. She smiles up at him, her hair a mess, her lipstick gone, her cheeks flushed and her eyes hooded. She has never looked more beautiful.

She winks at him. “So, shall I keep the elf hat?”

He blushes hard, but grins and nods. It’s disconcerting that she knows him so well, as though she can, in fact, read his mind. She sits up, and wraps her arms around him with a chuckle, nuzzling her face into his chest. The hat is long gone, presumably on the floor behind her desk somewhere.

She tilts her head back and grins up at him. “I bet you’d look good in a Santa hat.”


End file.
